


drinking responsibly

by AlexiaBlackbriar13



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Anxiety, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Oneshot, PTSD, Post Season 3, Roadtrip, Season 3, cocktails, season 3 hiatus, very mild angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 21:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17650379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexiaBlackbriar13/pseuds/AlexiaBlackbriar13
Summary: After their night together in Nanda Parbat, Oliver's PTSD results in him not being able to drink anything Felicity gives him.This makes an evening while Felicity is bartending during their roadtrip rather difficult, considering she keeps making him cocktails.





	drinking responsibly

**Author's Note:**

> i think i wrote this back in 2016 during the post-season 3 hiatus but i just... never posted it?
> 
> posting it now *shrugs*
> 
> (i'm well aware that i might get attacked by people who say i'm being horrible to felicity. this is not anti-felicity; i don't intend it to come across like that. please remember that oliver's insecurities stem from his poor mental health and do not affect his love for her.)

On their vacation around the world, eventually ending in Ivy Town, Felicity made a lot of drinks for Oliver. She made coffee; she made hot cocoa. She made tea, cocktails, several mixed alcoholic beverages that to his surprise, Oliver didn’t actually know the names of; she made smoothies, shakes, frappes and punches. Over those five months, Felicity poured hundreds of glasses of water and different juices.

And Oliver didn’t touch any of them.

He had figured it out only two weeks after they had departed from Starling City, riding off into the sunset in a lovely new Porsche, courtesy of Thea. After settling down in a small hotel off the side of a freeway in Ohio, Felicity made them both some tequila sunrises, out of sight in the small tiny kitchen whilst he showered. When Felicity had handed it to him with a beaming smile, Oliver had grinned back, pressing a kiss to her lips, but had found he physically couldn’t drink it. He couldn’t make himself do it.

He couldn’t make himself drink _any_ of the drinks that Felicity handed to him.

It was a PTSD thing, Oliver reckoned, after he was forced to dump another cold cup of coffee down the sink after he had sat in front of it for half an hour, wanting to drink it but his mind screaming at him not to touch it. That night in Nanda Parbat, when Felicity had drugged him using an alcoholic drink, had not necessarily traumatized him, but it had made the archer very, very paranoid about what liquids the blonde was giving him. His anxiety was acting up. Logic had been shoved aside to allow his insecurities to swell and take over his rational thought processes.

Oliver knew it was stupid. He knew that Felicity wasn’t going to hurt him or try and poison or drug him through a drink again. But there was still a tiny section of his brain that kicked off alarm bells whenever the blonde handed him a glass of water. There was still some part of his mind warning him that the drink could be spiked. Maybe it was knowing that Felicity had drugged him once - by putting a sedative in an alcohol, it was _miracle_ he hadn’t died or overdosed, because those _did not_ mix - that always made some horrible voice at the back of his brain tell him that she could again. Even though he didn't believe the voice, there was nothing he could really do about it.

He didn’t tell her. Of course he didn’t. He knew that Felicity would feel absolutely awful if he did, and it was his problem to work through, not hers. It was his PTSD, and he had to overcome this by himself. So he forced himself some days to ingest the drinks. He managed. Until ten minutes later, his stomach was doing backflips and he was emptying the contents of it into the toilet.

Oliver was absolutely mortified the day that Felicity worked it out. Because she was a genius and knew him like the back of her hand, of _course_ she would work it out eventually. His girlfriend was a genius. But it didn’t make the situation less embarrassing.

They were in a small town in Spain, staying in a motel room owned by a relatively small, family-run restaurant. The rent was very cheap, and both Oliver and Felicity insisted on paying the family more, but they refused to take the money, so instead Oliver lent them his superior cooking skills and Felicity worked behind the bar. Apparently, she had bar-tended and gambled to pay half of her MIT fees, but it wasn’t gambling when she played. As a result of that experience, Felicity was mixing the most bizarre and amazing-tasting cocktails like a pro, which were drawing in a bucket load of customers.

Well, he said amazing-tasting. Oliver didn’t actually know. He didn’t taste them and he didn’t drink the ones she made for him. Occasionally, you see, Felicity would wink and slip him a shot glass or an experimental cocktail. He smiled at her, but didn’t drink them.

As the restaurant started to close, Felicity finally noticed, taking in the mountain load of full glasses surrounding Oliver, as the archer had been so busy gazing out around the crowd, with his hyper vigilance making him tense and on edge, he had forgotten to pour them away.

Felicity’s eyes, which had been soft and kind before, hardened into steel. “Do you have a problem with my cocktail making, Oliver?” she asked quietly, as she finished off wiping down the last few glasses and stepped out behind the counter. “Because I think I made you about a dozen drinks and you didn't try any of them.”

“Didn’t want to drink too much alcohol,” he lied, putting on an apologetic face. “Kind of messes with the senses, you know. Even though my night job is behind me, I can’t help but rely on those instincts in crowded places like this.”

Felicity crossed her arms and questioned sadly, “Why are you lying to me?”

Oliver swallowed. He could continue with the lie, or he could give in now and fess up. After a few seconds of stony silence, in which his girlfriend glared at him, he decided that honesty was the best policy, especially since Felicity was practically a human polygraph. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” he admitted.

Her mask cracked slightly, her anger dissipating although she still remained on the defensive. “You think I’m going to get weepy over some constructive criticism about my cocktail making or something? I’m tough, Oliver, I can accept it.”

“It’s not if _you_ can accept it,” he answered. “It’s about whether _I can_.” He turned away, blinking down at the floor guiltily. “And it’s not about your cocktail making. I’m sure that’s great. You’re great at everything.”

A lone finger appeared in his vision to tip his chin upwards so he had to look into her eyes properly, and seeing the confusion and concern there, he saw that Felicity was no longer angry, and just wanted to understand what was going on. “Why didn’t you drink any of the cocktails I made you? What’s wrong? And don’t say -”

“Nothing,” they both chorused. Felicity shot him a glower.

Oliver’s shoulders tensed. “I can’t drink anything you hand to me.”

Felicity frowned. “Anything?”

Oliver nodded. “Even a glass of water. I just… can’t physically make myself drink it. Or, I can, but then I’ll sick it up minutes later.”

“And it’s me handing it to you that makes it so you can’t drink it?” The blonde still sounded a little baffled. But then realization seemed to dawn on her, and Felicity slumped in defeat and guilt. “Nanda Parbat… I drugged you using a spiked drink.”

“Yes.”

“Oh god. I’m so sorry. No wonder you don’t trust me.”

The archer shook his head frantically. “No, Felicity, I trust you. I trust you with my life. It’s just some stupid PTSD thing.” He glanced away, cheeks red with embarrassment.

“Nothing to do with your PTSD is stupid.” Felicity slid into the seat beside Oliver, reaching out to entwine her fingers with his and squeeze his hand gently. “I’m sorry if my pouring you drinks has been making it worse. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Oliver frowned down at the counter, thinking carefully. “If you make the drinks in front of me, it’s not as bad. I can see what you put in it then and I know for sure you haven’t snuck anything in.” His eyes flashed back up to her, pleading. “And I know it’s ridiculous to think you would sneak something in. I know that you wouldn’t do that, I promise. It’s just some weird paranoia, anxiety thing…”

“Oliver, I know,” she reassured. “It’s alright. I’ll make sure that from now on, I pour drinks in front of you so you can see what I’m doing. Is it just drinks, or food as well?”

“Just drinks.”

“Would it help if I drank a little from the glass before giving you it as well?”

He hadn’t thought of that before. If Felicity drank something before he did, that was basically her proving she hadn’t done something to the drink. “Yeah, that would - I think that would help a lot.”

Hopping off the chair, the blonde flitted around to the other side of the counter again. “Okay… so if I make you a drink now right in front of you and taste it for you… will you drink it?”

“Go ahead.”

Felicity took her time making a cocktail with Russian vodka as the base, adding all of the ingredients and mixes to the glass that was placed directly in Oliver’s view, so he could see precisely what she was doing. After taking a sip from the drink, she pushed it back over to the archer.

This time, there was no twinge of fear or suspicion when he drank. It was an ice cold Moscow Mule, the ginger extract in it creating a pleasant burn at the back of Oliver’s throat, while tangy citrus coated his tongue.

“It’s delicious,” he was able to tell her, knowing fully well what he was saying was the truth.

She lit up. “Yeah?”

“Honestly.”

Felicity preened happily. “Thank you.”

“I have to ask though.” He placed his glass back down onto the counter. “Are you as talented preparing body shots as you are mixing cocktails in a bar?”

His girlfriend’s eyebrows shot up at his sudden suggestiveness. “I reckon I’d be pretty good,” she teases. “With some practice.”

“How long until your shift ends?”

“Another twenty minutes. I’ll snag us a bottle of tequila, some salt, and some lime slices before we head back to our room.”

“You read my mind.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!! i would really appreciate your feedback x
> 
> twitter: @lexiblackbriar  
> tumblr: @alexiablackbriar13


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